The air inside the Conjuring House felt heavier than it should’ve for early evening—like the walls themselves were exhaling something old, damp, and watching. Outside, the Rhode Island woods had gone too quiet. Even the wind seemed to stop at the treeline, unsure if it wanted to come any closer.

Colby’s boots creaked against the warped hardwood as he moved through the living room, scanning shadowed corners. The house had looked bigger in daylight, during the walkthrough. Now it felt… compressed. Not quite claustrophobic—just full. Like too many things were sharing the same space. The camera gear on his shoulder wasn’t heavy, but the atmosphere made everything feel like it was dragging through water. Sam stood by the fireplace, crouched slightly as he set a REM pod on the brick mantle.

You sat cross-legged on a moth-bitten floral couch, hands resting on your knees, still as a held breath. Watching them. Or something else. Colby glanced toward the glass door of the grandfather clock and caught your reflection—except your eyes weren’t on the room. You were staring upward. Not at the ceiling. Through it. As if something beyond the second floor was drawing you.

Corey Heinzen leaned on the staircase banister, clipboard in one hand, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. His wife, Jennifer, perched nervously in a rocking chair near the edge of the room, fingers twisting the hem of her cardigan. On the coffee table: waiver forms, scattered EMF readers, analog voice recorders, and an open box of Spirit Shack gear—wires and antennas glinting faintly under the sickly glow of a single overhead bulb. Legalities and gadgets. Like any of it mattered.

“You said this room’s the most active?” Sam asked, breaking the silence with a voice that didn’t quite reach the corners.

Corey nodded slowly. “Yeah. Living room’s where it usually starts. Cold spots. Movement. Whispering. Sometimes sulfur—rare, though. More often it’s perfume. Or… old fabric.”

Colby dropped into a crouch, setting the tripod with mechanical precision. Anchor points. Familiar motion. Something to hold onto. He glanced at you again—still motionless, but now your head had tilted toward the hallway. Slight. Barely noticeable. But not random.

Jennifer’s voice came quiet, hesitant. “It’s been different since you guys booked. The moment the system pinged your names… stuff kicked up. Doors opening, footsteps, whispers. Like something… woke up.” Colby and Sam exchanged a glance. Not hype. Not exaggeration. Not here.

Then you shivered.

Not a twitch. A full-body tremble, fine as spider silk—too delicate to see unless you were looking. And Colby had been looking. Your hair moved. Not from a draft. It lifted—just a lock at first, like fingers brushing upward. Then more followed, drawn slow, deliberate. Until it snapped back like it had been yanked.

Colby stood up fast. “Yo. What the hell—?” Jennifer gasped. Corey’s expression drained to white. “Is she psychic?” he asked, voice sharp. Too sharp. “What?” Sam blinked, stepping back from the fireplace. Corey moved halfway down the steps, eyes locked on you like you were glass about to shatter. “I asked—is she psychic?”

Neither of them answered. You didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Jennifer stood. “When you guys booked the house, I felt it. I told him. I said someone like her was coming. The house knew. Things started again. Little things at first—movement, talking. Then two nights ago, the whispering came back. We haven’t heard that in years." Colby moved closer to you, hand hovering near your shoulder but not touching. Corey was still talking. “It doesn’t like psychics. Or it needs them. I don’t know which it is. But every time someone like her steps inside this house—things escalate. Fast. Sometimes it’s fine. Other times…”

Your body jerked.

Colby didn’t think—he just reacted. “Hey—hey! You okay?”